


A Court of Ghosts

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Mad King Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mirror's surfaced started to fog up and it seemed to ripple before it stilled, showing him a Mad King that he didn't recognize as himself, one with flames dancing around him, magic overflowing, ghosts clinging, eyes frighteningly empty. Rage filled him and the next thing he knew the mirror was shattered, everything but a sliver showing his real reflection, without black skin and horns, without fire and ghosts. Just a tired man. The sliver that stayed was half stained with blood from his cut knuckles. Pieces of the mirror clinked and crashed to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Court of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Quite a few things inspired this, including samijen's art of dark god Ryan and the album badlands by Halsey (specifically the song control). I didn't really have a plan for this, just kinda wrote and experimented with the style. Hope you like it.

The man trembled on his knees, his nose practically touching the veined marble floor of the courtroom. He was dressed in rags and his hands were calloused, his face burned and pockmarked. His hair was matted and dark, unkempt and unwashed. He was a peasant, not worth more than a passing glance. 

King Haywood, sometimes called the Mad King, though never to his face, lounged on his throne. His fingers tranced the delicate engravings intricately carved into the gold depicting the old kings and councilors and magicians and fools. He was only half listening to the peasant talking, his soft and wavering voice drowned by the echoes in the courtroom. 

Next to him his Hand was talking, prattling on about payments and taxes and crops. Things Ryan couldn't find it in himself to care about. Soon enough the peasant was waved away and the next person - well, people - to walk into the courtroom immediately sparked Ryan's interest. His back straightened and his fingers drummed a half-remembered rhythm. The ghosts whispered to each other, insisting they were important. _Pay attention, pay attention._  

They were a man and a woman, one dressed in hides and furs the other in brilliant red feathers. There was an air of magic around the woman, winding around her red hair and making her soul glow. She held herself high, not at all intimidated by the dark man on the throne, the man that held more power then she could ever hope to gain. The man was almost a void compared to the woman, no magic but for the twitch in his hand and the glow of an enchantment over his weapon concealed in his boot. They bowed but stood tall afterwards. Ryan would have shouted, yelled, told them to kneel and tremble, but the ghosts stopped him. _Listen, listen._  

"What have you come to discuss with the King?" his Hand asked, stroking his beard. His back was straight, his eyes attentive. He had the stamina for holding court, a stamina Ryan would have envied, had he cared enough. 

The man's mouth twisted into a smile, all sharp teeth and malice. _Listen, listen,_ the ghosts urged him. "We would like to talk about the negligence of the lower class. The taxes are too high, piled on us, the ones with the least amount of money. The noblemen, however, are not taxed even in the slightest. They are shoved on us, and we are expected to pay them, even when crops fail. Everyone struggles to pay them and when they don't they're taken away by guards." His voice was fire and anger and there was something that sparked off of it, magic of a kind that couldn't be taught. A magic that only some men held in their heart. _A righteous heart,_ the ghost of the First King spat. _A heart that can make armies._  

The woman picked up where he left off, better at hiding her emotions then the man, though lacking the magic in her words. "There are... rumors, if m'lord doesn't mind me saying. People say you practice unsavory magic, the kind that most kings would stay far away from. They say you're the reason behind the misfortune of the world." The ghost of the First King laughed. _They always blamed the king, for every little thing. They always blame the king._  

"There have been monsters stealing animals and children," the man said, anger spitting and sparking magic. "There have been raiders on the fringes of the kingdom. There have been many people coming to implore you to help, yet you sit back and do _nothing_."

Ryan felt the anger catch and ignite, though he couldn't tell if it was him or a ghost, a demon latching onto his soul and pushing his anger to spill out of his mouth. " _Enough!_ " he thundered, and the woman flinched. The man seemed accustomed to anger and stood his ground. A ghost swirled around him, looking at him, studying him, pushing his anger as well. "You come to my court and imply that I do not take care of my kingdom? You come here, to my home, and call me negligent?" At this point the court had filled with ghosts, invisible to everyone but him, feeding and growing off his magic. It sparked and snapped, winding around his chest, wrapping his arms. 

"We have come here to ask for you to do something to help the lower class. We said nothing about your negligence," the man said, but it was more than just words. It rang through the air and disturbed the ghosts, making them mist that coated the air and clung to everything. The anger that had been fanned by the ghosts was snuffed out and he had to curl his hands into tight fists, fingers digging into his palms. He let his long sleeves fall over his blackening hands, magic congealing and corrupting. He couldn't lose himself, not now. 

"I do not appreciate your tone," Ryan said dangerously. He pushed the ghosts away from him and he ignored the whispered voices still telling him to listen, listen. "And if you continue with this impudence you might find yourself in the dungeons. Then you'll know what happens to those who do not obey my rules." 

The man only sneered. "The kingdom would be a better place without you as its king," he hissed, power and magic infused with the words, rocketed forward with emotions and belief. The words floored Ryan for a second because, despite himself, he believed it. In the split second of confusion the man reached down, pulling an enchanted dagger out of his boot with one swift motion, throwing it towards Ryan. The ghosts scattered and for the first time his mind was clear as the knife stuck itself in his chest, sucking his magic out and making him collapse on the ground.

He barely processed guards pouring into the room, grabbing the two responsible for this commotion. They didn't struggle, they only smiled grimly. Ryan felt his consciousness slip away into darkness. 

In the dark purple lights danced and bobbed, white stars periodically being blotted out by something darker then the night's sky. In the dark ghosts whispered, kings talked, fools and architects and warriors conversed in strange tongues that he somehow understood. Panic arrested him, deep in his chest something kicked, and he wondered if he had died. 

A split second later his chest was heaving and he was gasping, hands clawing at the sheets that clung to him, stuck to him. He wrenched them off, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, feeling the cold air brush his legs but it did nothing to cool him. His skin was hot, boiling with magic rushing to get back to him after the knife had been removed. He sucked in air greedily, almost painfully. He stumbled out of bed, pressing a hand against the bandages wrapped around where the knife had cut him. 

His eyes found a mirror, and he flinched away from what it showed him. 

The skin around his arms looked burned and blackened, fire lacing where veins should have been, nails more like claws. His eyes sparked with fire, the bags under them as dark as his arms. Two horns curled out of his skull and he reached up to wrench them off, only for his hands to pass through them, dissipating them. _Not over, not over,_ the ghosts whispered. _It's not over yet._  

Ryan's hands twitched and curled into fists. He couldn't let the ghosts affect him, poison his mind, warp his soul. They gave him power, but he couldn't give them power or it would overwhelm him. He had to be more careful. He had to be more careful. 

The ghosts crowded the mirror, fogging up the surface. It seemed to ripple before it stilled, showing him a Mad King that he didn't recognize as himself, one with flames dancing around him, magic overflowing, ghosts clinging, eyes frighteningly empty. Rage filled him and the next thing he knew the mirror was shattered, everything but a sliver showing his real reflection, without black skin and horns, without fire and ghosts. Just a tired man. The sliver that stayed was half stained with blood from his cut knuckles. Pieces of the mirror clinked and crashed to the ground. _Inevitable,_ the ghosts murmured.

His door burst open and two guards tried to move him back to his bed, frantically calling for a nurse to come and bandage him up again, make sure nothing was wrong. Ryan pushed them off. "Stop your incessant worrying," he commanded coldly. "I'm fine." His blood dripped onto the cold marble. The ghosts muttered. 

"But my king-" a guard tried to say, but he found his throat closed off by a hand, magic pouring down into his chest, choking him but not killing him. 

" _Silence,_ " Ryan hissed, and the ghosts hissed it as well. "Take me to see the ones that did this to me," he gestured at the wound on his chest, covered in stained red bandages. "And take this mirror away." He released the guard and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. The servants present, brought by the shouting, quickly scampered to do as he commanded. 

His Hand came soon after, beckoning for Ryan to follow after dipping low to bow. They walked through the halls, tapestries calling after him, telling histories or whispering secrets. The walls held ghosts, kings long dead trapped in paintings, warriors still determined to serve standing in empty suits of armor, useless. The dungeons were worse, for the ghosts in the hallways were quiet, barely a breath of air. The dungeons were screams and pleading, not all of them fully dead yet.

His Hand brought him to two cells away from the others at the end of a long, dark corridor that dripped pain and old, dead magic. One held the man, the other the woman. Ghosts swirled around them but they didn't see them. Ryan made a motion for his Hand to leave. He did, but not without hesitation. He made it clear he would be outside if he was needed. 

He stepped into the man's cell first. His eyes glared at him, defiant. His hands and legs were clamped with chains and his mouth covered with a gag. Ryan stood over him, watching, waiting. The ghosts were silent, strangely enough. 

"For what you did," Ryan began slowly, "The sentence is death. I can't say it will be a quick death, no, not for you. Maybe for your friend, though, but only maybe. And only if you answer my questions."

He leaned down and pulled the gag off of the man's mouth. He immediately spit, and Ryan calmly wiped it off his face. "Fuck you," the man hissed, though his voice was missing the magic. It was tired, worn down. "Fuck you and your stupid fucking future." 

"Where's the magic, Michael?" he asked, and yes, that was the man's name. His Hand had been so kind as to find that out for him and if he hadn't believed his Hand the man's reaction would have proven him correct. He flinched violently away from his name coming out of Ryan's mouth. Names held power, which was why he never used his true name, his first name. "Where did your fire go?"

Michael glared at him. 

"Are we playing that game?" he asked lowly. "Are we really going to play that game?" _He wants to play,_ the ghosts giggled. _Let him play the game._  

When Michael didn't reply Ryan reached a hand out and the man shrunk away. He didn't have a long way to go, though, for soon enough his head rested against the cold stone of the inside of the cell. Behind the defiant eyes Michael looked frightened. Ryan let his hand drop onto the man's eyes. He let him see, and when Michael opened his eyes they widened, darting around the room, taking in the ghosts, the dead and rotting kings that had been underground longer then he'd been alive. His hands clamped over his ears as their words crowded his mind. His teeth ground together and his eyes squeezed shut.

Ryan stood and left, leaving the man to the ghosts. They would do their job, just as they always did. 

He entered the second cell, and he was met with less defiance but more magic. It swirled around the room and made it inexplicably warm. The woman looked at him calmly as he entered. "Your... accomplice is stubborn, I will admit." Ryan didn't miss the flinch from the woman as Michael's screams ripped through the dungeons. "But not many men can withstand the ghosts for long." 

Her eyes widened. Unlike Michael she had not been gagged so she said, "Ghosts?" 

Ryan grinned, cold and mirthless. "Don't worry about them. You won't get to meet them, even though I'm certain they'd be thrilled to meet you." He leaned in close to her and she shuffled back, seemingly rethinking her past choices. "Who are you working for?" 

His magic mixed with hers, pulling the truth from her mouth. "Rebels," she choked, keeping everything else chose to her chest. She didn't want to tell him. That was fine. He'd find out one way or another. 

"Are there more of you?"

"Yes."

"Are they coming for me?"

The silence was enough of an answer. The ghosts dissipated as he swept out of the tiny cell, slamming the bars shut with more force then may have been absolutely necessary. He stormed passed his Hand, telling him gruffly to get as much information as possible out of the two traitors. He could find his way back to his rooms. 

The ghosts followed closely, whispering, feeding off his anger and anxiety. He entered his room and found it blessedly empty. He called for a servant and they were quick to come. They trembled as his voice rumbled. "Bring me a change of clothes. Peasant clothes. And get me the knife, as well." The servant knew what knife he meant and they scurried away, eager to escape the cold air that hung dead in the Mad King's quarters. 

He felt his feet moving, pacing, and he tried to pull his thoughts out of white hot anger, tried to rationalize, to plan. How dare they even think of doing that to him? How dare they come to his castle and attack him, injure him? The ghosts pulled and plucked, bringing more anger to the surface. _How dare they?_ the ghosts whispered. _How dare they?_

The door opened and a shaking servant held out the items Ryan had requested. He took the clothes and threw them on, snatching the knife up and tucking it away where no one could see it. The ghosts murmured around it, pulling at the enchantment and following the path of magic that it left. Ryan felt himself moving through the halls, the whispers of the ghosts and the faint pulsing of magic blocking out everything else around him.

Thankfully he had enough presence of mind to pull a cloak of magic around him, hiding him from view. He walked deliberately, knowing where to go but not where it would lead to. The ghosts of the kings and warriors and fools fell away, not willing to leave the castle, instead choosing to wander the gardens and the halls to wait for him to return. Instead they were replaced by peasants and merchants and clockmakers, anyone with just the slightest touch of magic, men long dead with no one left to remember them. Loud, angry, confused voices, nothing like the whispers of the kings. Ryan stumbled as their words found their way to him but he kept moving, remembering with a scowl why he didn’t leave the castle very often.

As he walked through the busy streets he wasn’t quite sure which voices came from the living or the dead, all of them muted yet somehow pounding through his skull. There were merchants shouting about their wares, loud arguing hushed whispers. There were children laughing and playing, dogs running between people’s legs and pickpockets scurrying through the crowds. Not many people were smiling, the shadow of the castle looming over them.  
  
Soon enough Ryan found himself at the door of a tavern, shadows cloaking the dark wood. It was hidden between dark shops with stained glass in the windows, trash and rats fringing the streets. The streets were empty of people, leaving only the ghosts to whisper and hiss and shout. He took a deep breath and pulled the cloak of magic off, making himself visible once again. The coarse material of the peasant clothes rubbed against his skin and he pulled at it but knew he would have to ignore it. He took a deep breath, sucking in magic and pooling it around himself, slowly but surely donning a face that was not his. 

The auburn curls bounced and the lips smiled, all hiding the man he was. The common face dusted with freckles and warm brown eyes hid a king, a king with anger spilling out of his heart and magic sparking out of every pore of his body. He stepped into the tavern and was met with smiles and warm faces. People talked and chatted and clapped him on the back. He floated through the interactions, the ghost of the man he'd stolen the face of dancing around him, trying to get people to listen, to stop, to realize the trick. They didn't listen, of course, for they couldn't hear his pleading. Only Ryan could, and he just smiled all the wider with stolen lips and talked to everyone with stolen words, chasing away any doubts anyone had. 

A man with dark hair and dark eyes, framed in white and black, was the one the ghost fervently begged at. He was the one the man trusted. A friend. Ryan smiled at him, but was met with worry. 

"Where's Lindsay?" he asked quietly, and it was always quietly. It was as if he feared talking too loud would make him real, open him up to be injured and tortured. "What happened at the castle?" 

"Nothing happened," Ryan assured, his face still stolen, though the cracks were starting to show. "Lindsay is off doing something or other. You never know with her." 

A dagger pricked the skin of his neck, the metal cold and hard and dangerous. The look in the man's eyes, hidden behind a white mask, was almost as dangerous. "Who are you?" he hissed, and Ryan's face twisted into a grin and this time it was his own. 

The ghosts gathered around him, close and whispering. Their cold sucked any and all warmth from the air, bringing to a standstill the conversations and interactions in the tavern. This was the place, he knew. These were the people that plotted against him, whispered about him, spread rumors about him. This was the place where the dagger that had injured him had been enchanted, where Michael and Lindsay had come from. 

This was the place that would _burn._

He grabbed the dagger that was held to his neck. His fingers dug into the blade, sending red droplets of blood to the ground as he wrenched it from the man's hands. He looked at Ryan with fear plain and clear on his face. For one reason or another the pain was far away, his mind floating in the words and emotions pushed on by the ghosts.

 _They will burn,_ they whispered. _They will burn._  

His magic whipped up and devoured, sending sparks of fire and ash into the air. It licked up the walls and burst the glass behind the bar, feeding alcohol to the flames. They roared up, equal parts magic and nature, and in a split second the bar was filled with screaming and yelling, with scraping tables and crackling fire. The ghosts whispered and fanned the flames, the wood splintered and burned. Ryan moved through the tavern, unimpeded by the chaos around him. The building went down as he stepped into the streets, collapsing as its support beams were eaten away and worn through. The smoldering wood hid the carnage underneath, though that, too, was being eaten by the embers. The air stayed cold, biting and burning where the flames touched it. 

Ryan walked back to the castle, more ghosts then before following him, shrieking and yelling, pleading for their lives back, for the chance to see their families again. They pleaded but Ryan didn't listen and soon their shouts were replaced by the familiar whispers of the Kings. 

 _They deserved what they got,_ the First King whispered. _They played a game against a god and lost. They paid with their lives. And you will too._

The night fell quickly and no one dared to ask about the red on the king's hands or where he had been all day. Not even the Hand dared to try to talk him down from the mad look in his eyes, the twitching fingers and sparking magic. He wouldn't have been able to reach Ryan, anyways, for his mind was blocked and clogged with the voices of dead kings, whispering about the future. They whispered that he had made a mistake. They whispered that his life was soon to come to an end. 

It did suddenly, in his room, surrounded by the cold and ghosts that he had chosen to listen to. The knife slipped into his back, quietly, and as he fell to the ground the ghosts swarmed around him, bringing his soul out of his weak, dead body. The man with the dagger shook and shuddered, covering his mouth with his hands. The darks of his clothes blended with the night perfectly, and only the white of his mask shone through. 

His Hand would find his body later, cold and covered in blood, with a single red rose tucked in the folds of his clothes.


End file.
